


Tabula Rasa

by echowell



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 18:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10255010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echowell/pseuds/echowell
Summary: Charles and Erik wake up lying on the floor of Charles' study with no idea who they are or how they got there. Angst, an exasperated Logan and a metric ton of fluff ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Idek what the timeline is here, guys.

He wakes with his cheek pressed to a hard wooden floor. It’s sun-warm, worn smooth from years of use. When he pushes himself to his feet, he sees that he’s in – a study? It looks like a study, all broad windows and bookshelves, an old mahogany desk in the corner, piled high with papers.

It’s about then that he realises he has no idea who he is.

A sudden clutch of fear in his chest then, and he whips around – bloody stupid, as if he’s going to find the answer written on the wall behind him – then back, breath coming fast, as if the floor’s disappeared-

“Stop _panicking_ ,” a pained voice says.

He looks and sees a man lying by the door. This man looks – well, like an academic, or a very stereotypical librarian. Floppy brown hair, boyish face, cardigan – cardigan? Christ.

“Yes, a cardigan, it’s very comfortable, _thank you_ , and I feel it’s a little rich to give fashion advice from the confines of that very fetching polo neck.” The man is getting to his feet now, squinting a little, as if he’s hungover.

“Who are you.”

The man straightens up. “I…” he starts, confident. Then his face goes blank. “…I have no idea.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

There’s a mirror above the mantelpiece, and he takes a moment to examine his reflection. The face that stares back out at him is sharp, moody, stubble edging his jaw. And yes, a fucking _polo neck_.

The other man is rifling through the papers on the desk. After a moment, he makes a noise of triumph, holding what looks like a business card in the air.

“Here!” he says. “’Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters’, est. Professor Charles Xavier, 1963.”

“ _Youngsters_.” He pauses, then takes in the other man’s Oxford accent, his cardigan, how natural he looks standing behind the desk-

“I think you’re Xavier.”

The other man examines the card again. “Xavier. Charles Xavier. Well, it’ll do, I suppose.” He raises his eyes. “What about you?”

He realises he hasn’t checked his own pockets. With a sigh, he runs one hand through his hair, and begins rifling through. An old coin in the front left pocket of his jeans, but other than that, nothing. He sighs again and absent-mindedly pushes up his sleeves-

Numbers.

They’re untidy, unsteady, almost as if someone’s etched them in in their own careless chickenscratch handwriting and – he takes the coin from his pocket. Tries to take a deep breath. Fails.

He might not know his name, but he knows what a swastika looks like.

There’s a cold horror creeping in the pit of his stomach. It’s – something. Some dread, some terror, something that whispers and dies and drowns, and – and –

“Calm down,” Charles’ voice says distantly. “You – I – _calm down_ , please-“

For some reason, suddenly he feels desperately aware of every piece of metal in the room – as if he can _sense_ them, the nails in the window frames, the girders in the walls, and the room is shaking, trembling, it’s going to shake apart-

 _Stop._ A hand on his arm. He looks up to find Charles’ eyes panic-wide, inches from his own. _Stop._

He jerks back. “I can hear - what the fuck did you just do?!”

 A wave of panic from the other man. “I can hear you – I can _feel_ you, you’re terrified-“

It’s like being seen naked. “Well, _don’t_.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I-“ Charles is breathing shallowly, eyes still wide, hand tight on his forearm-

He takes a breath. And then another. Then, an idea.

He imagines a blank, white wall. Focuses on it, on the rough cement between the bricks, the brushstrokes. The metal in the room is still singing to him, so he focuses on that too.

Charles’ breathing slows.

“Thank you.”

He nods curtly, then straightens up, looking to and fro. He can definitely _sense_ the metal – the brackets, the girders, humming faintly in the walls, even the coin in his hand.

When he looks down, Charles is staring at him. “Maybe – do you think you could move it?” he says.

“I don’t-“ He opens his hand, looks at the coin. Lets his mind nudge around the edge of it, and then – ah! – he finds the currents in the air around it, feather light, and it’s as easy as breathing to move them _just so-_

Charles’ mouth forms a round o of surprise as the coin lifts gently into the air. Then his face breaks into that wide, boyish grin. “That is _so groovy_.”

“Groovy.”

But Charles is already turning back to the desk, grinning like a loon. For a moment, he’s left to stare at the coin hovering above his palm in mute surprise, all the while sensing nails, wires, the earth beneath his feet-

Charles makes a noise of triumph, and he turns.

“Erik!” he says, brandishing a letter.

He goes, takes it. The handwriting is sharp, but neat.

_Charles,_

_This evening. Just to talk._

_Erik_

He raises his eyes to find Charles still grinning at him, looking for all the world like a bloody Labrador puppy.

“Erik it is, I suppose,” he says.

-

They’re halfway down the (wood-panelled, many-doored) corridor outside when Charles suddenly freezes, eyes wide. “There’s someone just round the corner, he’s-“

But he can’t finish, because at that moment a man comes barrelling round the corner with a snarl and pulls Charles to his chest. He’s not tall, but he’s stocky, lined with muscle, and then there’s the claws. Oh yes, did Erik mention the claws? Because this man has razor sharp claws coming _out of his fucking knuckles,_ and they’re currently pressed to Charles’ throat.

“Where the fuck am I?” the man growls.

The claws look like metal. Erik reaches out, tentatively, and – yes, metal, and it’s not just the claws – whilst Charles is busy stammering – “We were rather hoping you’d be able to tell us.”

Slowly, the claws retract. Charles slides out of the man’s grip, then immediately turns and offers him his hand.

“Charles,” he says with a rueful smile. “I think.” 

The other man glares at the proffered hand as if it has personally offended him. “Logan,” he says gruffly.

“How do you know?”

Logan’s eyes flick up to Erik, sizing him up. Without a word, he raises one hand. A set of dogtags dangle from his fingers.

“Excellent,” Charles says brightly. “…what now?”

-

“A spell.” Logan says flatly.

“Well, I don’t know!” Charles says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “We’ve woken up in this bloody upper-class monstrosity with no memories and all kinds of _groovy_ magical powers” – Erik cringes internally – “I don’t think _spell_ is completely out of the question, do you? What else could it be, a government experiment? Bad trip?”

“It’s _your_ upper-class monstrosity, you tell me.” Logan clenches and unclenches one fist as he speaks, as if he wishes he had something to keep his hands busy.

“Erik?” Charles says, shooting him a pleading look.

Erik sighs and leans his head back against the wall. They’re sitting in a rough circle in a room through one of the corridor’s many doors. It looks like a bedroom. Well, more a dormitory – three beds laid out in a line, a couple of dressers ranged along the opposite wall. There are books and bottles of nail varnish scattered about.

“I know as much as you two do,” he says. “Although for my money, I think government experiment is more likely than _magic spell_.”

“There’s no need to be so disparaging,” Charles butts in. “You can move metal, he has a set of very fetching claws, and I can hear your thoughts from here, so I don’t think any option is off the table, do you?”

A long pause then. Erik takes the opportunity to examine Charles’ face in profile. He’s handsome, in a boyish way, he thinks. No, not handsome – pretty.

Just then a pair of blue eyes flick up to meet his. Erik looks away.

“What’s in the news just now?” he asks, mostly to distract himself from the lurking suspicion that Charles is dipping into his thoughts. He has an abrupt, surprisingly vivid mental image of someone trailing their fingers through clear water.

“That dumb fuck senator who got himself caught with three rent-boys in a seedy motel in Utah,” Logan says. “Heatwave in the midwest. Same old passive-aggressive pissing contest with Russia. Why?”

“So we can remember current events, just not personal ones. Politics. History.” The coin feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket. When he looks up, Charles is still staring at him, something sad lingering in his expression.

“You knew I was there before I came round the corner.”

“Before you barrelled round the corner and tried to gut me, you mean.”

“Shut the fuck up. So you don’t just read minds, you can sense ‘em. Even if they’re not right in front of you.”

Charles nods, once, his eyes going to Logan. Erik exhales. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath.

“What’s to stop you seeing who else is in this place?”

Charles shakes his head, going a shade paler. “I – can’t, I tried, and it was like a tidal wave, it-“

“Alright, bub, limited range, I get it.” Logan pauses for a moment. “We should split up. I’ll take the ground floor, you take this one. See if there’s anyone else in this place.”

“And why are we going together whilst you go off on your own?” Erik asks, just as Charles nods enthusiastically and exclaims “Excellent idea!”.

“Because he looks like a strong breeze’d knock him dead,” Logan growls, getting to his feet. “And I don’t want to have to put up with you two assholes making moon eyes at each other.”

-

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

All the rooms they’ve checked so far have been more or less the same. All comfortable, big windows, comfy chairs. Two or three beds in each. All empty.

“No.”

Charles is trotting along at his side, all big blue eyes and sympathetic expression. Erik wonders why he finds it so hard to look away.

“Erik, please, I know what you’re thinking-“

“Well, you should be able to pull the answers right out of my head, then,” Erik snaps.

Charles draws back. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t turn it on and off like a tap. I’m honestly trying so very hard not to pry.”

He puts his hand on Erik’s arm. The touch sets off a shiver of warmth, and again Erik notices how blue Charles’ eyes are, how soft his lips look, and-

Oh.

Oh, fuck, no.

-

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“Okay, look, I know this is all very confusing, but there’s no need to be _rude_ -“

“You’re blue!”

“Yes, an excellent observation-“

“You’re fucking blue!”

“You’ve got metal claws coming out of your knuckles!”

The man-werewolf-smurf-whatever the fuck he is steps back, making placating gestures. Cautiously, Logan lowers his fists. He tries not to wince as the claws slide back.

“You know where the fuck we are?” he spits. The blue guy shakes his head.

“Is anyone else here?”

“Two of ‘em upstairs. You seen anyone?”

The other man shakes his head.

“What’s your name?”

He tugs at what looks like a hospital pass, hanging round his neck. “Hank McCoy, apparently.”

“Logan.”

“You’ll forgive me for _not_ shaking your hand.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Come on. And the next goddamn freak we find better not be blue.”

-

“Excuse me…I’m sorry, but do you know where I am?”

The voice is quiet, with a gentle, lilting southern accent, but Erik still jumps. When he turns, he finds a girl peeping out from the doorway to his right. Young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Watchful brown eyes. Long, dark hair that she nervously tucks behind her ear.

“Oh,” Charles says. “Hello.”

“Hi.” She takes a step forward, edging out of the doorway, and against all reason, Erik feels a sudden rush of sympathy for her.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” He offers her his hand. “I’m Erik. This is Charles. As far as we know.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl says, good manners winning out. She reaches out to take his hand.

The moment her skin touches his, it’s like being plunged into icy water. All the breath rushes out of him at once. Distantly, Erik feels his legs crumple beneath him, feels his head meet the floor with a thump. He catches a last glimpse of Charles’ face, and then the world goes dark.

-

Sure enough, the next goddamn freak they find is blue.

She’s sitting on one of the windowsills, looking out over the grounds, one graceful leg hanging down so that her toes touch the floor. For all the blue and scales, she’s gorgeous, high cheekbones, red hair falling to her shoulders. When she turns to look at them, her eyes are sharp.

“You have any idea where we are?” Logan says, gruff. He hears Hank take a sharp breath behind him as he sees the girl. Tries not to elbow him in the ribs. Who’s fucking rude now?

The girl shakes her head. “No. Do you?”

“N-no,” Hank stammers. “You’re – you’re blue.”

The girl fixes him with a look that says _no shit_.

Logan wants to roll his eyes right out of his head.

“Right, true blues,” he snaps. “You take the rest of this corridor. I’m gonna go check the basement.”

“What?” Hank squeaks. “You can’t just leave us!”

“Fuckin’ try me.”

-

He wakes to the sound of a girl sobbing and someone’s hands on his shoulders.

“Erik!” a voice is saying, and for a moment he has the bizarre feeling that someone else’s panic is battering at the edges of his mind, seawater on the hull of a ship. “Erik!”

 _Erik._ Ah. That’s his name.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, tries to push himself upright. His arms feel like water. A face swims into focus, inches from his own. It’s pale, bright-eyed, frightened, and all at once Erik finds himself thinking, _fuck, you’re beautiful_.

Charles draws back a little, mouth open, a faint blush spreading across his face.

Erik feels like the ground has disappeared.  Fuck. Telepath. _Fuck._

 Luckily, that’s when the girl starts wailing in earnest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she’s gasping, “I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry-“

Abruptly, Charles jerks his eyes away, and goes to her. He’s saying something, talking to her in a low voice, tone soothing, and Erik’s left lying there feeling hollow.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Charles is saying. “Look, this is frightening for all of us, none of us know what we can do-“

It’s illegal.

Erik knows that much. Men get beaten to death for things like this, he knows it, he’s _seen_ it, in – in the newspapers, or – fuck, he can’t remember. He stares up at the ceiling, pointedly _not_ looking at Charles as he tries to comfort the crying girl, but it doesn’t make any difference. He’s still thinking of blue eyes and dark hair and knowing that – that that’s what he wants. _Fuck_.

Abruptly, he wonders if he’s already had a crisis like this – in his teenage years, perhaps? Maybe it was over some boy, some schoolfriend ( _with blue eyes, dark hair_ his mind maliciously supplies). Maybe he spent agonised nights pacing round his bedroom, hating himself-

Across the room, Charles is murmuring – “I think I need to talk to my friend over there, will you be alright? If you want to just sit in one of the rooms – it’s okay, he’s okay-“

Erik stares blankly. Maybe he cried it out into his pillow, some lanky teenage boy realising his life is falling apart. He thinks of the sharp face he saw in the mirror of the study. Somehow he can’t imagine it.

There’s the quiet click of the door as the girl leaves the room, and then he and Charles are alone.

-

“-and then I wake up to this” – Hank gestures to himself – “this bloody ID round my neck, and that’s all I have to go on, some bizarre sci fi lab and me looking like a Hammer Horror villain…”

Suddenly realising that he’s rambling, he stops. The girl at his side is silent. Abruptly, he’s painfully aware of her blue skin, the way the scales on her upper arms glint in the light.

“Sorry.”

“You must have some real fucking issues if your self-hatred is stronger than your goddamn memories.”

The words bring out a wave of anger, and – although he’d never admit it – a faint sting of shame. “And what would you think, if you woke up looking like this?” he growls at her.

She gives him a withering look. “I would think I didn’t have any time for assholes who hate me for the way I look.”

She stares him down, and her face flickers, changes - first his, then the rough sideburns and scowl of the man they’d met downstairs, her eyes scrolling from yellow to green to blue-

“If you can look how you choose, why not look normal?” Hank says weakly.

The look of hurt on her face is so quickly hidden that he could have imagined it. She sneers and stalks away.

-

“Here.”

The glass is cold against his lips. Erik takes a long gulp of water, pulls himself up a little straighter.

“You don’t have to nurse me.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m just a little…washed out.”

Charles purses his lips, pensive.

There’s a long pause. _Fuck it_.

“You saw,” Erik says. “Before. You heard me.”

Charles looks away, his face unreadable. He nods.

Erik lets his head thump back against the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-“ The words cut themselves short. Shame is curling in his stomach, hot and suffocating, and for a moment he wishes desperately that the floor would open and swallow him whole. Charles studies him silently. Erik finds he can’t meet his eyes. He gives a bitter laugh, and raises the arm that has the numbers tattooed on it. “I suppose that would explain this, anyway.”

Suddenly, lying here beneath Charles – vulnerable – is unbearable, so with a groan, he pushes himself into a sitting position. Even that leaves him breathless. He leans back against the wall, fighting off a wave of dizziness, trying to ignore the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

When he looks up, Charles is still watching him.

“It’s alright, you know.”

Erik huffs a laugh. “It’s not. They have laws against it.”

Charles moves closer. He licks his lips nervously, and Erik catches himself desperately wishing that he could ignore it, that he didn’t feel compelled to stare.

“No,” His voice is low. “It really is alright.”

Erik can feel his heart beating in his chest, pounding, a flush creeping up his neck. And Charles – well, that means he can sense it too, can’t he? At that there’s a stab of something that’s half humiliation and half alarm. Erik makes to get to his feet, perhaps to try and save the situation, change the subject, or maybe just to turn on his heel and leave the room, but then Charles’ hand is on his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

“Erik,” Charles murmurs. His eyes are so very blue. “Erik, don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he manages. The words come out fractured and inadequate, expressing none of what he wants them to.

“Don’t be,” Charles says, and then he leans in and kisses him.

It’s shy, chaste, just a brief press of Charles’ lips against his own, but it still sends Erik’s heart rate rocketing. He takes a sharp breath, hands reflexively going to the other man’s shirt, pulling him close. For a moment they just breathe, foreheads pressed together, Charles’ fingers tangled in Erik’s hair, Erik’s hands clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“You know,” Charles says, his voice low. “You shouldn’t be so cautious with your thoughts. You’re so certain I won’t like what I see.”

Erik kisses him again, partly just to shut him up, because this – this is too honest, too much. It’s deeper this time. Charles’ lips are warm against his own, perfect, and when Erik tentatively shifts his hands up, runs them through the other man’s hair, Charles shifts closer, making a small noise of contentment in the back of his throat.

“Is this real?” he whispers. Charles laughs into the crook of his neck.

-

Logan finds the next two creeping around a corner, spy style, backs to the wall. He catches their scent first, then all of a sudden, a dame with red hair has him hanging two feet off the ground, her hands outstretched, her eyes glowing faintly. A skinny guy with dark hair lurks behind her, scowling.

“Hey,” Logan says. “Your glasses are fuckin’ stupid.”

-

Suddenly, Charles draws back (and Erik absolutely does _not_ make a small noise of want/need/displeasure at the loss, alright, don’t be ridiculous). For a moment, he looks towards the door, a look of concentration on his face.

Then – “The others have found something.”

“I’m sure the others can deal with it.” Erik tries not to sound petulant. It doesn’t work.

Charles turns back and smiles at him then, soft, and warmth blossoms in Erik’s chest. But then the other man is getting to his feet, offering Erik his hand.

“I think you have more faith in them than I do, my friend,” he says. “Shall we?”

-

He can hear crying (and Christ, if he hasn’t heard enough _crying_ today) before they even open the kitchen door.

Logan has managed to gather quite a collection of followers in the hour or so since he left them. He’s standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at a guy who’s wearing a frankly bizarre set of glasses. There’s a guy who looks like a werewolf that’s fallen in a vat of blue paint awkwardly fidgeting next to him. Two women kneel on the floor, both red-haired, one…blue. There’s no sign of the girl with the gentle voice.

At the centre of it all is a tiny girl, maybe six or seven years old, crying her eyes out.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I didn’t mean to, I was just – I had a bad dream, and then – and then-“

Straight away, Charles is on his knees, comforting her. _Definitely a teacher,_ Erik thinks.

 “Oh, my dear – shhh, no, it’s alright, don’t cry – what’s your name?”

“W-willow,” the girls sniffs.

“Willow, what a lovely name!” Erik can hear the smile in Charles’ voice. “Now, Willow, I’m sure you can do some special things, everyone here can” – the girl gives a watery nod – “and when you can do special things, sometimes accidents happen.”

The girl’s lip quivers again. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she chokes. “I just had a bad dream, and then when I woke up, no-one knew who I was, like what happened with my mom, and – and-“

“Shhhhh, it’s alright,” Charles hushes her. “Willow, mistakes happen, and I think this one’s probably fixable. Now, like you, I can do special things – I can look inside people’s heads.”

“I know that,” Willow says.

“Of course you do. Now, sometimes people don’t like it when I hear what they’re thinking, but if I take a look, I might be able to find out what’s gone wrong and undo it.” He gestures to his temple. “Do you mind..?”

Willow shakes her head. Charles’ eyes flicker shut.

There’s a breathless pause, and then-

The first thing Erik notices is the anger. First there’s just a low curl of it, like smoke inching under a door, and then every fibre of his being is vibrating with it, a thundering, barely-restrained rage - at human beings, at the world, at Mystique and Hank and that bloody Summers boy, and most of all at Charles - and suddenly, suddenly he knows who he is.

When he opens his eyes, he finds the whole room looking slightly shell-shocked. Then Mystique leans back against the counter, examining her nails, mask back in place. Scott and the woman – Jean, wasn’t it? – share a small, private smile, and -

“So what the fuck is he doing here.”

At Logan’s voice, the rest of the room turn as one to look at him. Suddenly, Erik finds himself stumbling for words. What _is_ he doing here?

Then Charles turns to meet his gaze, and abruptly it feels as if the floor has disappeared.

Without a word, Erik turns and leaves.

-

“Erik.”

He hates how Charles can still him with one word. Somehow, he knows that this is how it will always be – just his name, spoken quietly, no telepathy required. Always. And always, rooted to the spot, it’s all he can do to keep his voice steady, and say-

“Charles.”

He’s expecting some bloody lecture then, in that slow, sincere, desperately sympathetic tone he hates ( _loves_ ), but instead all he gets is – “Please don’t go.”

Erik rounds on Charles, brimming with anger and shame and God only knows what else  - “Don’t go?” he hisses. “Don’t _go_ , when you’ve seen-“

And then Charles is kissing him. It’s slower this time, more sure, made certain with the weight of memories and years of feeling.

“Don’t,” Erik chokes, jerking back. “Don’t.”

“Erik,” Charles says softly, bringing one hand up to cup his face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “Don’t go.”

Erik feels the thrum of his thoughts, achingly familiar, and despite it all he can’t quite bring himself to shut it down, to slam down the walls the way he’s used to doing.

 _Please,_ Charles’ voice whispers inside his head. _Please let me show you_.

As if he could see anything more damning than what he’s seen already. Erik closes his eyes. Nods.

At first it’s just a trickle – odd little images, fragments of memory. Erik sees his own face as he stands in a doorway, looking bemused. Leaning back against marble steps. Staring down at a chessboard. Shooting Charles this odd scowl-smile, as if he’s trying to be annoyed, but failing.

Each flicker is accompanied by a rush of affection. Not his own – Erik knows he’s never loved anyone that slow, soft way.

He sees himself as a dark shape in cold, black water, his hands outstretched; feels the dizzying rush of Charles’ amazement and delight and _yes_ as Erik’s mind finally lets him in. Then a hint of something else as his eyes – Charles’ eyes – trace the droplets of water on his jaw, graze over the angles of his face, his lips, imagine-

A flicker of embarrassment at that, the mental equivalent of an exclamation mark.

 _Ah, yes,_ Charles’ voice says. _Um. Right. Sorry about that. Moving along._

  _Oh, but I was enjoying that_.

 _Erik_.

He sees Charles’ face as he stares into a mirror, thinking and thinking, yearning curling in his stomach.

He sees himself in profile, lounging in a seedy club, lifting the ice bucket with a snap of his fingers, and Charles is trying so hard not to let his eyes wander, to reach out and touch him, to let his feelings show on his face.

He sees his own sleeping figure in a motel room and feels – attraction, yes, but also curiosity and affection and a low, creeping warmth, and he feels the faint shock as Charles realises exactly what it is.

Erik realises he’s leaning against Charles, their foreheads pressed together. He’s breathless, mind echoing with everything he’s just seen, and for a moment all he can do is press a mute, desperate kiss to Charles’ lips

“If you’re lying-“ he says, voice thick.

Charles cuts him off, voice low. “I’m not. Erik, how could you think me capable of lying about this.”

The other man's hand is warm on the back of Erik’s neck. He huffs out a laugh, mortified to feel tears beginning to streak down his face. Charles brushes them away with his thumb.

When Erik finally opens his eyes, Charles is watching him, his face kind and soft and everything he’s ever wanted.

“Oh my friend,” Charles murmurs. “I think we have some lost time to catch up on.”

Erik laughs again, the sound more broken than he’d like.

“Yes. Oh God, yes.”

-

Back in the house, Logan rolls his eyes. Turns away from the window. Lights up a smoke.

“Took you long enough, you goddamn assholes,” he mutters to himself.  


End file.
